Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Look at me, Elsie.” His voice snaps me to attention. Jack has moved around the island and is leaning against it, next to me. The back of his finger taps gently against my hand, grounding me. A silent Shut up, will you. “You done spiraling?”

            “I’m not spiraling,” I lie. “Jack, believe me. You don’t want to spend time with me.”

            He nods, thoughtful. “What else don’t I want?”

            “I’m serious. For one, I’m technically still fake-girlfriending your brother.”

            “Didn’t know it worked as a verb. Cute.”

            “And you hate the personality-switching thing.”

            “That won’t be a problem.” His eyes gleam. “Since I also enjoy calling you on your bullshit.”

            My cheeks heat. “We have nothing in common. What would we even talk about?”

            “We could spend two weeks just on liquid crystals. Or you could tell me about Twilight. Your erotic Bill Nye fan fiction phase. Stream of consciousness would be fine, too. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.”

            “I think a lot about how much I hate you,” I say with no conviction.

            “I think a lot about how much you hate me, too.” His smile is tender. “When’s the last time you had someone in your life you could be completely honest with, Elsie?” Asked by anyone else, it would be a patronizing question. Because it’s him, it just feels genuine.

            “I . . .”

            Maybe my parents, when I was very young. But I can’t remember a single moment in the past two decades in which I wasn’t context dependent. In which I didn’t feel the need to cut myself into pieces, serve the one I thought others would want on a silver platter. There have been easier people, like Cece. People who knew most parts of me, like Cece. Even people who recognized the pleaser in me and encouraged me to stop, like Cece.

            Okay: there has been Cece. And I’m grateful. But even with her, I’ve never been fully sincere. I’ve always been scared that honesty would be the deal breaker.

            “It’s been a while,” I say. But Jack already knew that.

            “Then you’re overdue.”

            This is . . . terrifying.

            “No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

            Disappointment darkens his eyes, but I can barely take it in before a phone buzzes—his.

            “Shit,” he mutters. But he looks away and picks it up, and after a heaving sigh he says, “I need to leave.” He grabs a sweater from the couch. “Let’s go. I’ll drop you off first.”

            I slide to my feet. “I can take the bus. The storm’s over, so—”

            “Elsie.” Hand against my back, he pushes me to the entrance.

            “No, seriously. You’ve already done so much . . .” He takes a soft, cozy black hat and slides it over my head. It’s not mine, but it feels great. And apparently I’m not awake enough to insist that I don’t need a ride and button up my coat at the same time. “It’s fine, I can even take an Uber and . . .”

            He notices my shaking hands and gently brushes them away to do my buttons himself.

            “Elsie, it’s fine. I get it. You don’t want me to take you out.” He gets to the highest button. His knuckles brush against my downturned chin. “At least let me take you home.”



* * *



            • • •

            Jack’s a confident driver, relaxed even in bad weather conditions, with the roads not quite clear and other cars swaying. I sink into the heated seat he turned on for me and remember the time I swerved to avoid a squirrel, almost causing a multivehicle crash.

            The squirrel turned out to be a Wendy’s paper bag, but it’s fine. I’m good at other things. Probably.

            “Feel free to pick up,” I say, pointing at Jack’s phone. It’s been buzzing nonstop in the cupholder, a weird techno soundtrack to NPR’s world news segment.